


Three Times Irene Adler Was a Threat and the One Time She Wasn't

by mnm_moons



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Deductions, F/M, Late Night Conversations, Moriarty's Web, One Shot, Pre The Empty Hearse, Sherlock is a Good Boyfriend, Sherlock is sentimental, hurt/comfort fic partly ish, implied sex in karachi, irene adler needs a hug, irene is damaged delusional and believes in herself as a higher power, irene is tired, sherlock is paranoid but he has a reason to be, soft times with adlock, they are both legally dead, they dont fuck here tho im sorry, three times one time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-08 23:57:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20985410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnm_moons/pseuds/mnm_moons
Summary: There are three times Sherlock Holmes recognizes Irene Adler as a threat, and there is one time Sherlock comes up with the revelation that maybe, just like him, Irene Adler was also just a human as damaged, delusional, and egotistical as himself.





	Three Times Irene Adler Was a Threat and the One Time She Wasn't

**Author's Note:**

> fhsgzs okok im like kinda experimenting on this whole "three times, one time" format because ive,,, uh never written in a format like this before so uh yeah sfzgsgx sorry if the writing is kinda clumsy but like,,,, now u know why! this format is cool but im new to it so,,,, yeah sgzgx
> 
> and yeah sgxgsx im kinda really fascinated with this idea and as far as i know, no one else had made it exactly the way i envisioned it ya know so like,,, yeah! make the change u wanna see in the world kids 😤😤
> 
> i hope u enjoy!!!

_.i_

The first time Sherlock fully comprehends how dangerous Irene Adler is, they are in a cabin in Brazilian woods and observing the Woman was becoming a past time. 

Sherlock had been dead for two months, and Irene a little over two years. To the world, they existed as nothing more than memories of a dominatrix who was too ambitious and a fake detective longing for the attention his stories would bring, but together, they were as alive and as genuine as one could be - the pair had beating hearts to prove it.

Sherlock himself didn't try to bother to recall how they found each other again, but he was grateful they did. Together, the two great minds worked in unison to cover their previous job - cutting off another piece of Moriarty's web. 

"Cutting off" being murdering, that is.

Currently, they were temporarily based in a closed off part of a remote forest somewhere in Brazil, and at this moment, the detective and the retired dominatrix quickly packed their belongings, preparing to depart the cabin they had stayed in the past week before they were discovered. 

"Fifteen minutes," Sherlock estimates, shoving his belongings in a black duffel bag without much care. "Maybe seventeen if the janitor's limp prevents him from getting to the room of Moriarty's previous contact quite as quickly as he usually does."

Irene laughs, but that sound is so clearly hollow and fake, a sound to reply and cover silence rather than a genuine noise of amusement. Neither of them speak for a while. After a few months of bickering and careless flirting, the detective is not used to the brewing silence and it is evident by the frown slowly forming on his face.

"Always so desperate to show off," she teases after a long pause.

He stops packing to turn to the Woman behind him and lets himself track her movements, eyes glazing over the way she moves. 

Irene's movements are trained. 

Sherlock can see by the way she moves fluidly and quickly that she's done this many times before. Her actions are quick but calculated as her eyes narrow in thought. It's clear what her focus is: leaving as fast as she can, as clean as she can.

She shoves her clothes in a way that keeps mindful of the limited space in her small duffel bag and she casually but carefully stores her collected weapons under folded blankets and thick pieces of clothing.

Sherlock's focus hangs on this motion for a while, deducing what he can about her actions. History of smuggling weapons, the detective notes to himself, judging by the way Irene's actions seem to be based on muscle memory for the most part, eyes following Irene as the ex-dominatrix stacks clothes and blankets over the weapons in a way that perfectly concealed them. 

Sherlock almost laughs at the thought of airport security suddenly popping up in his head.

The way she packs is something most people would probably brush off as unimportant or insignificant, but in the past month they've been together, Sherlock finds there are hidden secrets everywhere in the Woman's mannerisms and habits, and he takes it upon himself to recognize the pieces of the Woman's puzzle and try to piece them together.

The detective analyzes the way Irene's attention shifts to a mirror hanging on the wall. She takes a moment to glare at her reflection experimentally. She switches her expression and smiles.

The smile looks genuine enough to fool Sherlock himself, but when Irene wills her face to contort into a helpless, broken face in less than a second, it's clear that the Woman is acting. Her expression switches a few more times. Melancholic, dopey, menacing, submissive, intimidating. 

She's got full control of her facial expressions. An actor in the extreme. 

Irene notices Sherlock's stare when her eyes turn to the mirror and she sees Sherlock staring at her reflection.

She turns around and smiles softly at Sherlock. The smile looks genuine enough, but Sherlock swears the smile Irene had shot him was the same one she had practiced in the mirror. It's more than jarring to him, but he merely swallows, masks his quiet fear and returns with a grin.

He knows not a convincing grin, but Irene's attention is no longer on him, instead focused back to her reflection as she styles her hair to a more convenient ponytail.

Sherlock finishes packing without a word. 

Irene leaves with a bag full of expertly concealed weapons and Sherlock leaves with soft fear and a fresh reminder of what made Irene so dangerous.

* * *

_.ii_

The second time Sherlock realizes how much of a threat Irene Adler is, Sherlock is watching across the ballroom as Irene flirts with a man. 

Maybe an ordinary man who was closest to any sort of a romantic relationship with Irene would feel jealousy at this, but with the context of why Irene is doing what she's doing, Sherlock feels no jealousy in the slightest.

They're on a mission, and if it takes Irene's charm to finish, the two are more than happy to use it. Irene is an advantage and advantages cannot be wasted for something so simple and _ordinary _as jealousy.

She has the man wrapped around her finger in thirty seconds flat. Irene excuses herself from the man for a while and heads back to Sherlock. 

Tonight, they are Mr. Sheldon Young and Mrs. Andy Young. They pose as a couple for the man Irene had been flirting with not minutes ago. Irene knew what people liked and this one in particular liked the thrill of having a woman he can't have, and what more says "can't have" than a married woman?

Sherlock pretends to be oblivious to what's happening with his "partner" and the man she had been talking to. He catches the man shoot him a smug smirk and he has to put effort into not rolling his eyes. The man shoots Irene a wink when he thinks Sherlock isn't looking. 

Sherlock sees Irene resist the urge to roll her eyes as well, forcing a convincing giggle and turned back to Sherlock.

"How long will it take?" Sherlock asks. He doesn't have to clarify. His question is serious but to make himself look like an oblivious partner being cheated on behind his back, Sherlock's expression is plastered with a fake smile.

Irene turns her attention to the man on the other side of the ballroom, looks him over, and rolls her eyes in a slow blur of pale blue.

"How long will what take, getting into his pants or disposing of him? Actually, you know what, don't even clarify, it's two minutes for both of those." Irene laughs at her own joke. 

Sherlock's lips quirk up just the slightest bit. "Two minutes each or two minutes in total?" He knows she meant in total. He wants a reaction.

Irene matches his smirk. "You insult me, Mr. Holmes." She turns and watches the man carefully. "He's looking. Quick, pretend like I've just excused myself and you're disappointed."

Sherlock plasters on a crestfallen face. Irene lets her eyes roll. "You're overselling it," she says. 

Sherlock huffs at her comment but he takes her advice and makes his expression less dramatic. He doesn't admit that she was right about overselling it, but he does hum appreciatively.

"All right, I'll go now."

"Good luck."

Irene scoffs. "I don't need luck."

No, Sherlock agrees in his head. She really doesn't.

She goes back to the man she'd been flirting with earlier, takes the man by the hand, and leads him to a closed off room. A custodian's closet, Sherlock guesses by the size of the door frame. 

Irene's in and out of the room in less than two minutes. She entered with a man and left with an empty syringe, though this time, Sherlock knows the syringe didn't contain the same drug as she had used on Sherlock once upon a time, and this time, Sherlock knows the man wouldn't be waking up any time soon. Or ever. 

Irene smiles innocently, taking confident strides across the room to him. Her syringe is somewhere in her bag, empty. The job was quick. 

Sherlock frowns. Too quick. Something was bothering him.

It takes a moment for him to realize, and when he does, they are already walking out of the mansion, Irene holding a hand held mirror in her hand with indifference on her face.

With a murder as quick as the one Irene had just pulled, it would have meant no time for hesitation or mercy. If Irene took the slightest bit of a moment to contemplate whether or not what she was doing was immoral, the job would have taken her a little longer, maybe thirty seconds to a minute longer, depending on how emotional the Woman felt.

But no.

It was a fast mission. 

There were no words exchanged, there were no last minute thoughts rethinking murder. No hesitation. No mercy.

Sherlock's gaze flicks to the woman who walks next to him as they stroll out the door the way couples do. Irene shows no emotion resembling guilt or regret on her face. Actually, there's no emotion at all, except maybe annoyance when she stares at her mirror and sees her lipstick just the slightest bit smudged.

Sherlock turns his attention back to the path in front of him. 

He wonders if Irene would hesitate to kill him if it ever came to it. He doesn't linger on that thought very long.

The answer is disturbingly unknown to Sherlock.

* * *

_.iii_

The third time Sherlock notices how powerful Irene is, a thought pops into his mind: Irene survives like it's an art.

The more time Sherlock spends with her, the more information he takes in. He notes her stubborn determinedness, her immediate reaction to be on the defensive, and her little hidden talents. 

The Woman, Sherlock is certain, is fluent in multiple languages and counting. He hears her use French in multiple occasions, and the way the words roll off her tongue like they fit there tells him Irene had spent a considerable amount of time in French once upon a time.

She, however, doesn't have many contacts in France, so Sherlock quickly realizes her life in France must have been years before she'd built her reputation as a dominatrix. Maybe even back in her teenage years. Sherlock can't imagine Irene as a teen. 

Sherlock can, however, imagine her as a ballerina, and from the way she holds herself when fighting, Sherlock knows ballet was a part of her life at some point. He notices her elegance and agility as well as her flexibility. The detective considers her being a gymnast at some point, but the faded scars on the Woman's feet and how she sometimes walks like she's in mild pain suggests a history of ballet being more likely. 

There are other snippets of conversation Sherlock has with the woman in late nights when they celebrate missions with glasses of champagne that tell him more things about the woman than their paragraphs of mindless flirtations do.

On one occasion, the Woman frowns and sighs deeply, taking a sip of her champagne.

_"Conversations with you are always so frightening,"_ she'd said, her words rolling off her tongue slowly, like she was picking them carefully from an apple tree of vocabulary, careful not to choose any bad apples.

Sherlock had raised his eyebrows at that statement. _"Oh?"_

The Woman had smiled, her face illuminated by the dim lighting of that hotel in Montreal. She hums out a_ "Yes" _and continues, _"The more I say, the more things you know."_

_"You say that like it's a bad thing that I know,"_ Sherlock had replied. There wasn't an ounce of hostility in his words, and he finds that's what he likes about late night conversations with the Woman. They can say anything they like to each other without having to worry about the other hating them in the morning.

There's a split second hesitance in the Woman's voice when she finally spoke again, something Sherlock had come to know as the Woman omitting something from him. Instead of saying what she had clearly wanted to say, Irene just laughs. _"Maybe it is."_

But Sherlock knows enough of the Woman to satisfy his brain. 

He knows by the way Irene Adler's tongue switched from German to Italian with ease during the time they'd disguised themselves as German diplomats at a meeting to assassinate a particular politician close to Moriarty that the Woman was well educated in multiple languages, some even he cannot name. 

He knows by the way the Woman leads the Frenchman who was once loyal to Jim Moriarty away from his weapons with a quick, experienced drawl of a word uttered in French that the Woman had a life in France before she became _the Woman. _

He knows by the way the woman moves when she dodges a blow that would have left her incapacitated with a swift movement of her legs and impressive jump on her toes that Irene Adler was once a ballerina. 

But most importantly, he knows by the way she holds herself at a defensive that she has something to be defensive about. He knows by the way she picks her words like she picks her disguises that she's got secrets to guard.

He knows she's aware of how dangerous she is and he knows people who are self aware of their power are often people more likely to use them.

* * *

_.iv_

The first time Sherlock realizes that the Woman may, just like him, be just human, Sherlock wakes to the space on the mattress next to him empty, and he's up and awake in a matter of seconds. 

Sherlock ignores the biting cold of the floor on the seaside cottage he and Irene found themselves staying in, stumbling his way to the small kitchen and living room. 

When the detective finds Irene nowhere indoors, he makes haste, exiting the cottage into the cutting cold air of the outside. It is there, on the wooden patio swing chair, where he finds Irene, her hair down and cascading over her shoulders and on her back, loose strands flying in the wind like a careless storm.

She's wrapped in Sherlock's dressing gown and her eyes are focused on the ocean waves, illuminated by the serene moon. 

"Came to go looking for your dressing gown?" Irene asks, refusing to look away from the view of the sea. There's a looseness to her voice Sherlock can't quite place.

The detective forces his face to neutrality, removing traces of concern that dotted his features mere seconds earlier. "No," he says. "Came looking for you." After a thought, he adds, "The dressing gown was a bonus."

Irene lets herself laugh at that, finally forcing her eyes from the view of the black waters to look at Sherlock. When she does, Sherlock finds exhaustion in her eyes. Irene moves to the right of the swinging chair to make room for Sherlock and after a thought, Sherlock allows himself the pleasure of sitting next to her, close enough that he can feel her presence next to him, but far enough not to be touching her.

For a while, they're comfortable and quiet, the silence filled only by the distant sound of crashing waves and the deep whistle of the wind. 

Irene breaks the silence.

"Do you remember our first meeting?" Her voice is unusually soft, void of her defensive edge and her usual air of confidence. She sounds... ordinary.

Sherlock recovers from the surprise with ease. "Hard not to," he admitted, letting his lips contort to a small and genuine smile. 

Irene chuckles. "Yes, but do you remember what I told you? About your disguise?"

"It was a self portrait?" 

Irene brings her knees up, hugging them as she forces her eyes to focus in on the ocean once more. "I told you you we damaged, delusional, and believed in a higher power, in your case, it was yourself."

Sherlock frowns, failing to understand why Irene would find this conversation important. With his eyebrows furrowed, he admits, "I don't understand."

Irene's voice is distant. "No, I suppose you don't."

"Did you expect me to?" The question is sincere and quiet, almost lost to the sound of the waves hitting the rocks.

Irene only lets out a breathy laugh, the kind of laugh that one would summon if they didn't know what else to do. It's soft enough to be lost in the sound of the waves. There's a long pause before she replies, "I don't know."

It's rare for the Woman to admit that. Sherlock stays quiet, almost hoping for the Woman to continue. He finds himself relieved when she does. 

"Damaged, delusional, and believing in yourself as a higher power," Irene repeated. Her voice was soft, almost convincing Sherlock she was saying it to herself more than anyone. She turns to Sherlock, meeting his eyes with a melancholic stare. "I once described _you_ as that, but I've come to terms with the fact that I may be more so."

Her words aren't picked as carefully as they usually are, Sherlock notices. They're free and tumbling and drawled with sadness and _exhaustion_. In every sense of the word, the Woman was tired. 

Sherlock's frown deepens. He opens his mouth to speak, but closes it once he realizes Irene is not done talking. There's something tragically beautiful at the way the delicate white of the moon turns her skin silver in places.

"Sherlock, I've lost everything." Her words are framed with intensity, laced with strong, unfamiliar emotions. "I lose everything _everywhere_ I go. I lost my childhood, my life, everything I've worked hard to acquire. My existence is a series of losses, and all I'm here for is to await the next loss."

Sherlock has to think before he speaks. "You haven't lost me," he assures. That must count for something.

Irene lets out a bitter laugh, her eyes flicking to Sherlock for a second before turning back to the sea. "Can't lose something you never had in the first place."

And Sherlock has no idea how to reply to that.

So another silence passes with listening wordlessly to the sounds of the world around them. Sherlock silently chastises himself for not comforting the Woman effectively. 

Irene breathes in before loudly, letting the frustration seep into her breath. She rests her head on Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock instinctively places a protective arm around her. With the warmth of the Woman's body against him, Sherlock is suddenly reminded of the bitter cold wind harassing his skin. He cherishes the heat the Woman shares with him.

There's something sensual about the domesticity of their actions in the moment. More sensual than anything they've done before, including that night in Karachi when Sherlock and Irene found themselves merged with synchronized heartbeats and sweating skin mixed with other bodily fluids. Their rapid heartbeats back in Karachi have nothing against the serenity of the moment they share now.

"You've always had me," Sherlock finds himself saying, the words tumbling out of his mouth like his deductions often do. He realizes saying this sentence is easy, and he knows it's an easy admission because it's a truthful one.

He takes a deep breath in and his face contorts into confusion. He didn't know how to comfort, no, but for the Woman, he'd try.

"You... may be _damaged_ and _delusional_ and believe yourself to be a _god_, but..." He struggled to find the right words, but when he looked down to find the Woman staring at him with those exhausted eyes devoid of rest, he realized he needed to continue. "But you'll always _ be _the Woman to me."

When he speaks, there are pauses in between his words, pauses where he struggles to find the right words to say. Sherlock wasn't a poet, but if the Woman needed one, he was there to be one.

"You're damaged, and so am I, but you are everything I've always hoped to be. I see _myself_ in you, Ms. Adler, but I see _something else entirely_, too. When I observe you, I not only see every bit of my damage and delusion and ego in yours, but I can tell you that you are _so much better_ than I can ever hope to be. 

"You possess _great_ qualities - qualities I can never hope to find in myself, and no matter how damaged you are, or delusional you are, or how much of a god complex you have, I _will_ be yours to command.

"You say you can't lose me because you've never had me, but I can tell you, Irene, that you can't lose me _not_ because you've never had me, but because you own every bit of me and that is something _truly _extraordinary." He pauses. "_You_ are truly extraordinary."

The silence that stretches when he finishes is deafening, but when Irene blinks in surprise at Sherlock's words, the smile that comes after is worth the struggle of finding the right words. 

Sherlock offers Irene a smile in return. He presses a kiss to Irene's lips and when the Woman smiles and resumes her position in resting her head against Sherlock's shoulder, Sherlock can't help but press another kiss to her forehead.

The sound of crashing waves and the moon's offered light blankets the pair in a comfortable atmosphere.

And tonight, the Woman wasn't a threat, or a danger, or an enemy.

Tonight, Irene Adler was just that: the Woman. 

**Author's Note:**

> fsgzfsgzs ok yeah!!
> 
> (dude i just realized literally all my authors notes have like 500 keysmashes in them zgsgxgs oh no)
> 
> whatever ok so like adlock is a HOT ship and i like often wondered what the more human side of adlock is because we see little glimpses of sherlock being human in the series and yall cannot tell me irene is always just a confident, perfect person all the time because y'all,,,,,
> 
> ive been put in the situation where im placed in a pedestal for being "clever" and all that shit and when people know u to be That Person, ur placed in high as shit expectations and that shit is fucking terrible lmaooooo its really fucking exhausting putting up a facade and ur all kidding urselves if u think irene doesnt crack every once in a while
> 
> fhsgzgsx so i guess that was my entire idea for this. show the broken and damaged part of adlock because that is some GOOD SHIT right there dont get me wrong i fucking love irene with a burning passion when shes a confident bitch but god damn the girl needs a break lmao
> 
> and yeah zgzsggzs okok thats it i fuckin guess lmao
> 
> please consider following me on tumblum @skittlesun (https://www.tumblr.com/blog/skittlesun) thank u very very much
> 
> ily  
-alex


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